Orcs Haven't Overwhelmed Himring Yet
by Duilin
Summary: A letter correspondence between Maedhros and Fingon. Dates may be warped. Happy birthday, Galad Estel!


**Happy birthday, Elina!**

Now for the less important things—this is a pretty humorous title, but the content inside gets progressively depressing until the point where it all blows over. I suggest you read something a bit happier before you read this. This leads into depression and unhappy endings. Also, I tried to be approximate, and I figured that the distance from Himring to Hithlum and vice-versa was about five days on horse-back, somewhere around fourteen days on foot, so somewhere between five to fourteen days with hindrances included, so the dates vary. But I could indefinitely be wrong.

The last letter was written in FA 587. The rest are from FA 471 to FA 472.

**I present to you**: Orcs Haven't Overwhelmed Himring Yet

* * *

**titled October 17, arrived October 23  
**_Dear Cousin  
Hello. I can only send short letters to you, as I am running short of time. We are bustling about in Hithlum, and it's quite busy. It's also awfully cold here. All I see is snow. And I can see the Iron Mountains. Have yet you received any word of Morgoth's plans to move south? I can feel another battle on the horizon, and I fear we may not yet be prepared before it is enacted though we have done all we can in the past few years.  
Fingon_

**titled October 24, arrived October 29  
**_Dear Findekáno  
No, marry, I've not. I'm sorry that Thangorodrim and Angband have graced you with their unholy presences—but then again, you were the one who chose to settle near Lake Mithrim, right in plain sight of the Enemy.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled October 29, arrived November 4  
**_Dear Maedhros  
Are you absolutely sure you're allowed to use Quenya here? Remember? Thingol—er, _King_ Thingol (damn it) forbade it.  
Fingon_

**titled November 4, arrived November 13**  
_Dear Findekáno  
No, in fact, I do not recall that. Did you honestly expect me to listen to Þingollo? Preposterous. How's the snow?  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled November 13, arrived November 24**  
_Dear Maitimo—I shall grudgingly address you as your amilessë  
I've sent you some snow. It may or may not be melted. See for yourself. (If this message is late, I'm horribly sorry. The messenger was caught in a little storm of orcs a while back…say around Nov.17 and didn't make it till the twentieth, or so I was told.)  
Findekáno_

**titled November 29, arrived December 7**  
_Dear—oh, forget all of these formalities  
Maitimo…? I've not received a response.  
Findekáno_

**titled December 11, arrived December 17**_  
Maitimo, are you all right? Have you been seriously injured? Is something the matter? Why are you not answering?  
Findekáno_

**titled December 19, arrived December 26**  
_Okay. Maitimo. How was I to know the messenger wouldn't get there till the twenty-fourth? Are you honestly angry with me for that?  
Findekáno_

**titled December 1, arrived December 25**  
_Dear Findekáno  
Merry beginnings of the cold winter we've ever had at Himring—your snow melted, on a side note. It's freezing like hell here now. The water in our barrels has all gone to icy purgatory. Stale bread is the cuisine—ever tried it before? We're holding war council again, so the messenger may be making rounds 'bout the land to ask Doriath and Nargothrond to join us. This letter may not reach you until…mayhap…the eighteenth.  
Yours truly (and only), Maitimo_

* * *

**titled December 25, arrived January 9  
**_Dear Maitimo  
Remind me never, _ever_ to attempt to contact you while you are sending your messenger off to the far corners of Beleriand. Since I am assuming you've received the letters that I've sent with haste and anxiety, ignore those damn things and grind them into tree bark once more so you can use it for something else useful. _

**titled January 10, arrived January 18  
**_Dear Káno  
I see you are so upset with me that you have not even signed your name... I apologize for worrying you—and grinding paper back into tree bark is physically impossible. I did not think that the messenger's absence would cause such trouble and disturbances to you, dear cousin. Enclosed is—well, next you see me, you may wish to detach my spinal cord from my bones and repeatedly clout me about the head with it, so don't say I didn't give you fair warning—a sheet of paper with lyrics scribbled all across the front. Macalaurë wrote the song—when I see you, I will sing it to you. I do not need to swear an oath to keep that promise.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled January 18, arrived January 27  
**_Dear Maitimo  
As long as it never happens again so shall I have to see a day without a letter…which accounts for the average five to __**twenty-seven**__ days wait…I shall have to be content. Please note how the paper is creased where I have gripped the paper in exasperation. Thank Macalaurë for me. And if you are to sing the song, make sure Macalaurë is there playing the lyre. You could outshine the passion of the song without the calm, soothing lyre to temper your voice.  
Findekáno_

**titled January 27, arrived February 5  
**_Dear Findekáno  
Ai, how many times must I say I am sorry? And are you intimating that my singing would completely cause the song to wither and pale and die as soon as my lips utter a single note? Am I honestly so…hopeless at singing?  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled February 5, arrived February 13  
**_Positive agreement to both. Oh, and twenty-seven times a year for the rest of your life.  
Findekáno_

**titled February 14, arrived February 24  
**_Dear Findekáno  
Marvelous, bittersweet, back-handed news! I may be seeing you sooner. We are planning an early meeting of the Union of Maedhros against Morgoth Bauglir.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled February 30, arrived March 9  
**_Dear Maedhros  
Our letters are being intercepted. Well, my letter, anyway. The letter identified with the date February 24 was taken as my messenger skimmed the border of Doriath, taking his usual route. I think he was purposely trying to avoid Dorthonion, which you said you recovered the southern parts of from Morgoth. I told him to use the path through Dorthonion, so he could get through to the Hills of Himring through the Pass of Aglon. He refused, apparently. Either way, guards encumbered him, and the letter I sent you with our names written in __Quenya __has been taken to Thingol for examination. We still have not heard a response from him yet.  
Fingon_

**titled March 10, arrived March 15  
**_Dear Findekáno  
Ah, he refused to use the pathway through southern Dorthonion? But I assure you it is perfectly safe. It is not as if my own troops would attack a fellow Elf. That is a bit discouraging that your messenger does not trust the alliance that I have made. However, I honestly do not give a single horse hair about Thingol finding out of our correspondence using Quenyan names. He may view it as treason, but I view it as our mother tongue, and I am not going to give it up. Have Thingol give up Doriath first. Then I will relinquish all semblances of honor and dignity and remain only a Sindarin-speaker.  
From, your loving cousin who can be addressed by three Quenyan names,  
Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, and Russandol_

* * *

**titled March 16, arrived March 23  
**_Dear Maedhros  
You're incorrigibly stubborn. But I'm afraid that's why I preferred you over all of my cousins… Damn, in retrospect, that wasn't such a fantastic notion. One day, I fear your obstinacy will get me killed. But I will still live to hear you sing to me.  
Fingon_

**titled March 23, arrived March 31  
**_Dear Findekáno  
So you do love my singing! I am proved correct—I must go tell Macalaurë later. We will practice the song immediately. But I will not allow you to be killed, Findekáno. Not after all of this. You, of all people, are definitely not allowed to die. You cannot. I will not let you.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled April 4, arrived April 13  
**_Dear Maedhros  
Sincerely sorry that this letter is late. Just got orc report in northern parts of Hithlum that are closest to Angband. Will send embassy to Himring to confirm alliance.  
Fingon_

**titled April 14, arrived April 21  
**_Be safe.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled April 23, arrived April 29  
**_Dear Maedhros  
Thank you. None were lost in the ambush, luckily. When shall we set the date for the fields of Anfauglith? I have garnered the troops together, and the Men in Dor-l__ó__min have agreed to join your union.  
Fingon_

**titled April 29, arrived June 6  
**_Dear Findekáno  
June 23. We lay in wait during Midsummer's night and wait till morning to call Morgoth forth. The sky will not make much of a difference - it is dark there during the entire day.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled June 6, arrived June 13  
**_Dear Mae—Maitimo  
My troops shall march out on the morrow, from the city to and through Ered Wethrin, to Eithel Sirion to surround the mountains and the Serech marshes. The distance is about perhaps 60 miles from Eithel Sirion to Thangorodrim, so our armies altogether have only forty-three miles to encompass as a safe range.  
Findekáno_

**titled June 13, arrived June 19  
**_Dear Findekáno  
Have your troops hold until we are able to join you upon Anfauglith. I have received word from Uldor of the Easterlings of a planned assault by Angband. Do not allow any generals of yours to be rash.  
Maitimo_

* * *

**titled June 19, arrived September 24  
**_Dear Maitimo,  
I see orcs approaching. They are like little specks on the horizon, edging slowly towards where we camp. I am having the troops prepare the weapons right now. Gwindor and his company insist to be at the front lines, and Beleg's own company will be taking the rearguard. I cannot ask Gwindor otherwise, since he has come all the way from Nargothrond to aid us, and for that I am grateful to him. We are assembling the front lines currently. It appears that the orcs are carrying some sort of hostage. It appears to be a stumbling, blind, and battered figure. They are still much too far away for anyone to distinguish what it is from the watch tower.  
Your loving cousin,  
Findekáno_

* * *

**never titled, never arrived****  
**

Dear Findekáno,

There… There are no words to express it. Thingol is dead, Morgoth is defeated, and Macalaurë and I have two children to take care of. It's almost ironic. If only you could have been here…if only I had your eyes so you might have seen through me the present as it is. If only I could have blind to everything. It is too late to apologize, to prostrate myself before you as a person who made the greatest of mistakes. I do not even deserve to beg for forgiveness now—this is the only route I may take, to finally become my father's son, to finalize my fathered sin, to ultimately rid myself of the darkness at the back of my mind that still remains even after Morgoth Bauglir is defeated.

The day that I dreaded before is here. Now, there is nothing to distract me from the everlasting, gnawing dull ache that plagues me.

Perhaps I consider myself pitiable, but in truth, it is despicable of how I can think of pity when I refused to accept it so long ago. Why did this day come so early? Now, I sound contradictory to myself. I purposely fashioned the Union of Maedhros with all those who would join me so I could destroy Angband and defeat Morgoth—but was that not to take the Silmarils from the rusted crown of his head? I do not understand myself now. Presently, everything seems so damn grey—a grey hell that I have to watch through my grey eyes, and I absolutely hate living here. I hate having to face Eonwë, knowing what I have done, and what he has done, and how he has succeeded whilst I failed. Now he holds the remaining two Silmarils, and I know that I cannot touch them, for I am dipped in black ink, and Eonwë will take them back to the Valar. What will I do now, with this Oath? All I must do… All I must do is touch them. All I must do now is that. They have already mocked me far enough, the Valar. One is permanently encased in the sky! I cannot touch the sky, Findekáno, I cannot touch the sky. No matter how tall I become, no matter how much I will for myself to be taller, I cannot touch the sky! O', how imperfect and flawed I am. Would you still love me, even as I am about touch purity with tainted fingers, and possibly ruin myself? Would you still love me if…I, who forced you on thin ice, were to walk through fire? I never fulfilled my promise. Both of them. Would you still allow me to sing for you, after I am dead?

Please...

No, I do not even know anymore.


End file.
